


At Least Sherlock Can't Guess the Password to This: The Private Writings of John H. Watson

by meowrails



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Character Death, Blood and Injury, Diary/Journal, F/M, Gun Violence, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mild Sexual Content, Personal Growth, Violence, War, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowrails/pseuds/meowrails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't a diary, ok? It's a journal. It's a grown-up, well-written, sensible journal. And above all, it's private. Sherlock Holmes, if you're reading this: fuck off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags are updated for each entry. Entires are dated semi-randomly and are not posted in any order (i.e. an entry in 2012 may be followed by an entry in 2014).

 

**JULY 10TH, 2012**

* * *

 

I looked into whether or not what you do throughout the day can affect what you dream about.  I actually discovered some pretty interesting stuff, to be honest.

What you hear and smell, cheese, position when dozing off, genes influence nightmares, earth’s magnetic field, and black and white television _all_ can have an effect. Considering all those things contribute to dreams, I’ll just lump in my daily activities as well.

Now, I’m not one who usually Googles stuff like this – I’ve got better uses for my time – but it was two in the morning when I started. I have some perfectly good reasons to justify this all, too; I won’t look back and read this entry years from now and think, ‘Fuck, John, you were an idiot’.

Long story short, I had a wet dream.

God, that sounds awful for someone over forty. Makes me sound like a perverted old man (which I am not).

It doesn’t _irritate_ me that I had one, because wet dreams happen, but it does _worry_ me. Why worry? Because it was about Sherlock fucking Holmes, and I’m absolutely, 100% straight.

We were completely naked, going at it on the bloody kitchen counter. Sherlock was very… vocal and grabby. I swear, I could feel his nails on my back and his hair against my cheek. I breathed and his cologne was what met my nose, for Christ’s sake. It was too vivid, like I was wearing one of those fancy sets of goggles that simulated your surroundings – but the pornographic, flatmate-shagging version. The way he said my name was full of passion and want and utter _lust_ , and I don’t know how to feel about it.

The last thing I saw before jolting awake to soggy sheets and a disappearing erection was his eyes – those piercing, ethereal, blue-grey eyes that rip through the soul of anyone who looks at them, like an arrow through the chest. Fuck, that’s probably what pushed me over the edge. ~~I’ve got an eye kink~~.

My whole life, I’ve only ever been with women, fancied them, etcetera, etcetera. Every wet dream I can recall has been about a woman. Why am I suddenly getting hot and bothered over a man?

That’s what lead me to Googling about what can affect your dreams.

Maybe this all happened because I’m around the bloke so often, my brain is now assuming that I’m gay. I smell him on a daily basis (he smells _fancy_ , and that’s the only word I can use), and I hear his voice nearly every waking hour. “Oh, John hasn’t gone on a date in nearly a month but he’s been within groping distance of his closest friend every day? Hm. Seems awfully… _homosexual_ to me. Let’s make him have a dream about buggering him silly. Even better, he’s fallen asleep on his stomach. I hope he enjoys the performance.” Thanks, brain.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay, but I’m definitely not gay. Like I wrote earlier, 100% straight. Always have been, always will. And I don’t think I’m bisexual, either. If I was bi, I would’ve shown some sort of interest towards a man by now.

I’m going to stick with my theory of proximity and lack of female interaction to explain this mess. And besides, it’s probably the right answer.


	2. Entry 2

**NOVEMBER 11TH, 2014**

* * *

It rained all night, last night, stopped at around 7 AM. We needed it badly; it’s been so dry and stale outside, the water’s going to bring some life back to the city. I think the downpour helped me sleep.

 

I had the day off, and I figured I’d visit Sherlock because we have some… chatting to do, be he was gone to God-knows-where doing God-knows what. Mary’s been at work all day as well. The quiet in the flat unnerved me, because there’s usually this nearly inaudible hum of… _something_ all the time.

 

Anyway, the silence was bad. I went out and did some shopping and had a late lunch.

 

I also went to the Remembrance Day ceremonies at the Whitehall cenotaph, which I haven’t done in years (what with being in Afghanistan a while back and simply not being in London otherwise). Quite a few people showed up, too, even some younger kids. You know, I didn’t expect anyone under the age of 30 to show.

 

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were in attendance, and Christ, is Kate a stunning woman in every sense. William looks just like Diana.

 

I can’t begin to describe the emotions I felt when the clock struck 11 and we had the 2 minutes of silence. Despite the fact that the rest of the city was abuzz with tourists and motorists and other ‘ists’, the gathering of people at the cenotaph was as quiet as the grave; unlike the stillness of me and Mary’s flat, I welcomed this with open arms. A few people could be heard sniffling (mostly the older members of the crowd) and it moved me. It really, really did.

 

Throughout the years, so many people have dedicated their lives for this country, and their dedication ultimately killed them. Hell, _I_ even knew some of those people. _I_ could’ve been one of those people.

 

One of my old mates from the army, Ian Brown, was the first person I was a friend with who, quite literally, gave their heart for England.

 

He was shot in the chest by an Afghan boy who couldn’t of been older than 13.

 

Now that I really think about it, I don’t even think that boy even knew what he was doing. The likelihood that he joined the terrorist movement in Afghanistan and followed in the footsteps of his elders because of coercion is extraordinary. Did he even know what he was really fighting for? Did he know who we were? Fuck, did he even have the slightest clue about _anything_?

 

It’s one thing to shoot another man for killing someone, but a child! A _child!_ They had to, of course. He’d murdered someone. Everything had happened in the blink of an eye.

 

The company had been out gathering information on the recent Taliban activity close to Camp Bastion, in Lashkar Gah; members of the Afghan army had noticed it a week prior to our investigation. It wasn’t seen as overly dangerous by my men or myself – I mean, yes, we knew there’d be guns and possible fighting, but it wasn’t as if we were running head-on into a group of rocket-launcher wielding Taliban fighters. It was just something simple. Nothing was supposed to happen.

 

Everything was going smoothly. My men were doing a sweep of the area and I was overseeing the entire activity. I’d just talked to Ian about taking another friend of mine, Colonel Peter Davis, with him for his leg of the sweep. Ian made some stupid joke about it being “dustier than [his] nan’s fuckin’ ashes out here” before he went off with Davis.

 

Maybe five minutes passed, and I heard shouting coming from my left – it was Davis, and he was gesturing for me to come over. I couldn’t make out what he was saying from where I was standing, so, naturally, I started to jog towards him to see what was the matter. Halfway there, the crack of rapid gunfire sliced through the silent, desert air. Everyone dropped down except Ian, who’d taken hold of his rifle to exchange fire.

 

Fucking idiot, he was. He shouldn’t have done it, but he did. Wanted to be brave, I guess. He always put himself before others, and never asked for anything in exchange. He didn’t have to put himself in front of gunfire. Fuck. It could’ve been _avoided!_

 

Didn’t even get to put his finger to the trigger. One of the shots grazed his bicep, and he flinched, grabbing his arm. The kid didn’t hesitate and just… nailed him in the chest. Bulletproof vests only do so much. Ian hit the dirt.

 

Davis managed to get his pistol out of its holster and shot the boy twice – once in the leg and once in the stomach (I read his report).

 

Time moved so slowly, like molasses in wintertime. Every little thing I could feel was amplified twofold. The sun on my face was hotter than it had ever been, the sand was suddenly in all of the folds of my cloths and scraped against my skin. I was being rubbed raw by the elements. My brain was in a flurry, nothing seemed real, and because I was currently being assaulted by every emotion discovered by man, I couldn’t pick out a single, logical thought. I felt… well, _lost._ Like a child without their mum.

 

In my head, the time it took me to get off my stomach and run to Ian felt like ten years, but it couldn’t have been longer than ten seconds. I dropped my pack and everything on me because I thought it would restrain me.

 

There was so much blood.

 

Ian was breathing heavily and slowly, sucking back every breath because he knew one would be his last. Even I knew there wasn’t anything I could do to help him, not with his injuries. I told him to put pressure on his arm and fuck him, he laughed. Said, “c’mon, John. I’m fucked”. That was the last thing he said, you know. What a bastard. He did it, anyway. Told him I’d write him up for being insubordinate if he didn’t, and he laughed again.

 

He died where he laid – on the gritty, brown Afghan sand, his own blood swallowing him up on the ground. It wrapped around his shoulders and ran down past his feet, a bit like Superman’s crimson cape.

 

I didn’t cry about it until much later, actually. Not until I’d sorted out everything with his family and his remains. I couldn’t be weak in a time like that. It wasn’t my moment to mourn. Lord, I miss him to this day.

 

Seeing someone get shot and killed changes you. It brings into perspective how much damage man can do and how fragile we are as living beings. We’ve brought so much destruction into this world.

 

I do believe my father would feel the same way, if he were alive right now. He went through the same things as I did – war, terror, and everything in between. We didn’t always get along, but I loved him, fully and completely. He’d be 93 this December. I think he really would’ve liked the display at the Tower of London this year (the over 888,000 ceramic poppies. I think it’s called something like “Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red”?)

 

Mary’s getting home soon, so I’m going to stop writing in here and hide it. I don’t want her to find this, I’m not ready for her to see what I’ve scribbled in here. Part of me thinks she wouldn’t understand. Hell, she’d probably rethink our relationship if she saw what I’ve written about She


End file.
